12. Callum
Callum
I still haven’t gotten used to the perpetual October that I seem to be living in.
Almost a week in Amberhollow, and my brain keeps expecting the trees to drop their leaves and give up the ghost (pun intended).
Instead, everything around me stays locked in this permanent, vibrant amber, the maples bleeding deep reds and burnt oranges against the overcast sky.
The air is cool enough that I can see my breath if I exhale hard enough, but never quite dropping into a proper freeze.
It’s eerie, but beautiful. And completely unnatural.
I pull the collar of my jacket up against the breeze as I trudge toward the center of town. I’m on my way to the capitol to meet with Mayor Brightfang about the missing persons cases, and my stomach has been tied in a tight, uneasy knot since I woke up. I’ve never met a vampire before.
My entire body of knowledge on the subject comes from whatever my sister, Isla, forced me to watch during her middle school Twilight phase.
Though calling it a phase is generous—Isla’s nearly thirty and still watches the movies twice a year.
A faint smile tugs at the corner of my mouth before I can catch it.
She’d be completely insufferable if she were here, asking if the mayor actually glitters in the sun.
And Rory would lose his mind over the weirdness of this place.
My brother would want to map every hidden alley and ancient stone archway in town.
He’d probably love Winifred, too. The two of them would be two peas in a pod within five minutes—equally loud, equally chaotic, and entirely committed to driving me up a wall.
I catch myself thinking about her and slow my stride.
I’ve seen her here and there over the last couple of weeks.
She’s hard to miss. I’ve caught her working her shifts at the Inn, wiping down tables or sliding an extra pastry onto Gerry’s plate when she thinks nobody’s paying attention.
Just yesterday, I watched her slyly pocket an extra doughnut from the kitchen, her eyes darting around like a cat that just stole cream.
It made me laugh under my breath, though I had to cough into my hand to cover it up when she glanced my way.
I’ve brought her coffee a few times from Spellspin, too.
I still cringe every time I have to order it—some ridiculous, hyper-seasonal concoction packed with cinnamon syrup, oat milk, and enough whipped cream to give a horse diabetes.
I don’t know how the hell anyone drinks that much sugar before nine in the morning, but the way her face softens when I hand over the warm cup almost makes the embarrassing order worth it.
Spellspin is her happy place. That much is obvious.
I’ve leaned against the brick building across the street more than once, watching her through the glass.
At the Inn, she’s guarded, but at the shop, she lights up.
She chats with the regulars, flips through crate after crate of vintage vinyl, and sometimes sits at the battered upright keyboard tucked in the back corner.
She doesn’t just play; she’s actually good.
Really good. She plays with her shoulders loose and her chin tilted up, lost in whatever melody she’s pulling out of the keys.
A couple days ago, I walked past the shop right around closing.
Through the illuminated window, I saw her spinning around in the middle of the aisle in socks on the hardwood floor with her hands thrown up in the air.
It wasn’t graceful—it was deranged, batty, beautiful dancing, her hips swaying to a song only she could hear, her dark hair flying into her face.
When she turned, mid-spin, her eyes locked right onto mine through the glass.
Her face flushed a brilliant crimson, her hands dropping to her sides like she’d been caught holding a smoking gun.
I couldn’t help the laugh that’d left my chest. True to her nature, Winifred flipped me off with both hands, turned on her heel, and marched back behind the counter with her chin held high.
“Callum? You still there, honey?”
My gran’s crackly voice comes through the tiny speaker of my phone, snapping me back to reality. I blink, shifting the phone to my other ear.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. Sorry, Gran.”
“What are you doing?” she asks, the faint clinking of knitting needles clicking in the background. “You sound distracted.”
“I’m not distracted.”
“Oh, really? Then what did I just say?”
“You asked what you just said.”
Her laugh cackles on the other end. “Smart ass.”
I chuckle, leaning back against the brick and tracing the edge of a mortar joint with my thumb.
“Are you coming back from Colorado anytime soon?” she asks. “Or are you planning on making those mountains your permanent residence?”
“I, uh, might stay a little longer,” I say, the lie slipping out easier than it should. “I’ve still got some personal leave saved up. Thought I might take advantage of it. Hike a bit. Decompress.”
There’s a pause on the line, long enough that I check the screen to make sure the call didn’t drop.
“Good,” she finally says. “It’s good you’re taking time for yourself, Cal. Lord knows I can’t remember the last time you did. You sound…happier.”
I scoff, watching a stray maple leaf dance across the pavement. “I’m the same old grump you know and love, Gran. Trust me.”
“No, something’s different,” she insists, her voice perking up. “Is there a lumber-woman you’ve been seeing up in those mountains?”
I pause, my brow furrowing. “A lumber-woman? What the hell is a lumber-woman?”
“You know! The opposite of a lumberjack!”
“That is definitely not what they’re called.”
“That’s beside the point,” she says, and I can practically hear her setting her needles down, leaning forward in her worn floral recliner, probably pausing her afternoon game shows.
For the last five years, she’s interrogated me about my nonexistent love life every single Sunday. “Is there someone?”
“No, Gran. I haven’t met a lumber-woman.”
She sucks her teeth, the sound of disappointment. “Well. One day.”
“Yeah,” I say with a smile. “Maybe.”
After we say our goodbyes and I hang up, I drop the phone into my pocket and stare down the length of Main Street.
My thoughts slip right back to Winifred. It’s becoming an annoying new habit of mine—thinking about her way more than I should. I keep trying to remind myself of the deal we made. She helps me find what I need, I get out of Amberhollow, and I go back to my actual life.
Except…the idea of going back isn’t pulling at me the way it used to.
I love my job. I love my team back home, and I love the work. But the thought of leaving this place leaves a strange pit in my stomach.
Over the last few days, this town has somehow wiggled its way under my skin.
I like stopping by the bakery in the morning to see Pippa and showing her two little girls coin tricks while they eat their muffins.
I like catching Winifred at the Inn or at Spellspin, trading sarcastic remarks across the counter.
I even like running into Stella, who’s usually walking down the sidewalk with Winifred’s brother trailing behind her like a loyal hound.
Hell, I’ve made friends with Mr. Henderson, one of the ghost crossing guards who still wears his high-vis yellow vest from 1984 and insists on safely escorting me across the street every single afternoon, despite the fact that cars just roll right through him.
I’ve even grown fond of Gerry and Delphi’s bickering down at the Inn.
It’s tight-knit, a little weird, and everyone is entirely too far up everybody else’s ass. But they care here. They look out for one another.
I miss that. I miss being part of something warm, something alive instead of spending twelve hours a day staring at evidence files and thinking about dead bodies.
Which is insane, given the fact that a week in this freaky little town has made me rethink my entire existence. Maybe there really is magic here, or maybe I’ve just been breathing in too much cedar smoke, but something about this place works on you.
Carved pumpkins line the flagstone walkways and wooden stoops of every porch I pass. Not just ordinary jack-o’-lanterns, either—these things are alive. As I walk past a low stone wall, two carved faces with glowing amber eyes turn their hollow heads toward me.
“Morning, detective,” the smaller pumpkin rasps, its carved mouth moving with a crunch.
“Nice coat,” the other grunts.
“Yeah. Thanks,” I say, pulling my lapels a little tighter and refusing to look back. I’ve stopped trying to figure out the logistics of talking produce.
At the end of the street, the capitol building rises up like something out of a European square.
It looks more like an old-world opera house than a municipal office, all dark red brick, arched stained-glass windows, and soaring copper spires that have turned a dusty verdigris green with age.
Massive iron lanterns hang from heavy chains near the entrance, casting a low glow over the broad marble steps.
Inside, the lobby smells like old paper and lemon polish. A young woman with pointed ears and a stack of manila folders under her arm points me up a curved staircase toward a pair of double oak doors at the end of a long hall.
I take a breath and knock twice on the heavy wood.
“Come in,” a smooth, melodic voice calls out.
I turn the brass knob and step through. The office is sprawling, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a Persian rug resting on dark hardwood, and a pair of tall arched windows letting in the muted afternoon light.
A man sits behind a massive mahogany desk, and leaning casually against the edge of it is a woman.
The man stops me in my tracks. He’s slight, almost petite, with fair, polished-marble skin and straight, dark hair falling just past his shoulders. But it’s his eyes that hit you first. They’re a pale, liquid violet. He looks like a piece of art that somehow learned how to breathe.